The Makings of A Malfoy (or, Draco Malfoy Realizes He's An Asshole)
by crustycrabs
Summary: "It has been his opinion for most of his life that a face will betray even the most private of thoughts; it is weakness to allow even the slightest reaction. And yet although reading others is almost a subconscious effort by this moment in his life, he has never seen another person wear emotions so freely and so carelessly, with reckless abandon." No Voldemort AU.
1. Chapter 1

Banquets for the Sacred Twenty-Eight were once exciting, but have long since worn off on Draco. He remembers his first banquet, when Mother spent hours dressing him in robes and Father lectured him on acceptable conversation topics. Although he now dresses himself, Father continues this tradition.

"If the Sterlings should decide to show, do not ask about Margaret-"

"Actually, that won't be necessary," Mother chimes in. "There's a rumor that Margaret Sterling has returned with a daughter in tow."

Father chuckles. "Has she managed a husband, or is the child a bastard?"

"Mrs Parkinson tells me the husband is deceased." Mother straightens out Draco's tie, fussing over him. "Don't ask about the husband, Draco."

"I won't," he promises, and disengages himself from her fretting fingers. "I'm going to floo now."

The table is long and arranged by alphabetical order. Draco sits by Mother, as usual, and rearranges the name cards so his right hand seat is for Theodore. Across from him, the Hufflepuff - Macmillan - keeps his gaze set firmly at his lap, trying his best to avoid Draco's eye.

"Alistair and Cordelia Nott," the doorman announces.

Theodore's mother is pretty enough for an old witch, although she has mousy hair that her son has unfortunately inherited. Alistair is another story: sweaty and overweight, his robes barely able to bundle him together, with a large hooked nose not unlike Professor Snape's. As soon as Theodore Nott's name is called, Draco sees him linger at the top of the stairs for a second before he catches his eye. He sits next to him and mutters something about Pansy, who later manages to squeeze herself only five seats away from Draco.

She had asked him to take her, but he'd ignored her owl. Escorting witches to Sacred banquets is a disastrous business; he'd have to find new robes that matched her dress or her eyes or some other nonsense. Pansy is, quite frankly, not worth the effort.

Before long there are only a few notable holes in the table: the Shacklebolts, likely doing business; the Weasleys, traitors to their blood and status; the Longbottoms, because their only son never did learn to run with the right crowd; Sirius Black, long since blasted off the family tree; and the Sterlings.

"Maybe Margaret is still in America and the entire family decided not to go out of shame," Theodore snickers, and Draco smirks.

He proves himself wrong not ten seconds later, when the doorman announces the arrival of the oldest Sterlings. The entire banquet is watching out of the corner of their eyes, awaiting one - no, two - supposed arrivals. Several Sterlings come and go, including one of his housemates.

"Garrick Sterling."

Draco tries not to look away in disgust, but fails. Garrick is short and scrawny, with buzzed hair and a bulbous nose. He seems to have taken the worst qualities of his parents and combined them to spawn a truly hideous excuse of offspring. More Sterlings come and go, until one name catches his interest.

"Margaret Sterling."

A low murmur ripples through the table as a tall, skinny woman appears at the doorway. Her features are sickly stern and the trademark mustard yellow Sterling hair on her head is covered with a large hat. She wears a conservative dress the color of mud that matches her eyes, and surveys the room with a learned wariness. She looks like a Sterling, through and through; the years in America seems not to have changed her. Her heels clack against the wooden stairs.

"And now for the daughter," Mother murmurs, and Mrs Nott laughs in amusement.

"Vanessa Sterling."

Vanessa, Draco has time to think before she appears at the top of the staircase. For a second he thinks that Margaret must be playing a joke; Mrs Nott has gone silent.

Vanessa Sterling has long, wavy brown hair tumbling over her shoulders. Her skin is a healthy tint of gold, and the dress she is wearing is more of a gown: cut enough to almost be indecent, cinched at the waist and billowing out to the ground, rippling as she makes her way down the stairs.

Vanessa Sterling, the supposed bastard halfblood of the Sterling house, has decided to show to the banquet.

Draco has seen pretty girls, with both pure and tainted blood; he has never seen a girl like her anywhere. She is absentmindedly smiling, unaware of the uncharacteristic silence from the banquet.

"It's safe to say she takes after her father," Aunt Bellatrix says loudly.

Amused, nervous titters escape their section of the table. Draco is still watching her as she descends the staircase and strides to the table. She walks like a cat, graceful and uncaring of her surroundings. When she gets to her chair, Garrick drops his napkin in haste as he prepares to pull it out for her. She puts a hand on his shoulder, pushing him back down, and flicks her wrist easily. The chair slides out by itself, no wand in sight.

Next to him, Nott curses spectacularly. Draco feels an inkling of shock; wandless magic before Fifth Year? Impossible, and yet-

"Draco," Mother says with a knowing look, and he returns his attention back to Mr Ollivander, who asks about Quidditch.

He tells Mr Ollivander about his training, despite the Quidditch Cup from the year before being canceled due to the Triwizard Tournament. Despite it all, he cannot help but sneak looks at Vanessa Sterling, who is currently talking to Slughorn with a lovely smile on her face.

After the banquet is over, the tables fold themselves away, and Draco ponders how he can go see if Vanessa Sterling is as perfect up close as she is far away. In his experience, there are no completely attractive faces; there is always a flaw. He himself finds his own nose spreads just a centimeter or so too large for his liking when he smiles.

"I'm talking to her. Distract Pansy," Draco hisses to Theodore, staring at Rosier. Due to his unfortunate luck in having the letter R quite close to S, Rosier has been able to make eyes at Vanessa all evening.

"Hello, Professor Slughorn," Draco greets, effortlessly digging his elbow into the soft flesh of Rosier's stomach and allowing himself into the tight circle. To his satisfaction, the other boy leaves. "Have you ever considered returning to your teaching position? Although Snape is not unskilled, your classes were much more compelling."

Slughorn gives him a gummy smile. "I find my position of retirement to my liking. I was just talking to Essa about the potion skill of Indigenous peoples. Ilvermorny is quite different from Hogwarts in several ways. I find it fascinating."

A bit surprised by her nickname, Draco turns to her, extending his hand in a practiced, casual manner. "I don't suppose I've introduced myself. I'm a Malfoy, you see. Draco Malfoy."

She gives him a grin, flashing white teeth. "Essa Sterling." She hesitates for just a fraction of a second before her last name, so quick that he almost misses it; he folds this information away in the corner of his mind. She is tall enough that he does not have to look down very much, a feat that few accomplish. Her hand is cool in his.

"Do you go to Hogwarts? I'll be a Fifth Year in September."

Her American accent peeks out more and more as she continues speaking. He's heard of American accents, but has never experienced one in real life. He finds it odd, but intriguing. As she speaks, he notes of her freckles, likely the effect of spending too much time in the sun. Perhaps she plays Quidditch as well. He affirms to her question, informs her that he will also be a Fifth Year, and smoothly inquires her to as if she will try out for the Quidditch team.

"I want to try out for Seeker," she says, and he barely refrains himself from smirking in amusement. He supposes the old saying is right: it is impossible to find a woman with both brains and beauty.

"Please excuse me saying so, but I don't believe that is possible," he tells her. "I am the Slytherin Seeker. However, there are two openings for Beaters."

"The positions don't reopen every year?"

"No," he says. "And I don't believe that you are suited to be a Beater."

"I've been a Seeker back in America since I was eleven," she says, and he is vaguely impressed. She does not speak of this as an accomplishment, rather stating it as a fact, and he is even more intrigued.

"The student that has accomplished this feat in Hogwarts currently has a father that serves as the Quidditch referee. Gryffindor, too."

She blinks those large, glittering eyes at him. "Slytherin and Gryffindor don't get along," she notes.

"You would be safe in your assumptions. Have you been sorted into Slytherin yet?"

"Not yet; I'll be sorted when school starts. Why are you so sure that I'm going to be a Slytherin?"

"You're a Sterling," Draco says impatiently. She is American, after all; she will learn.

Her eyes narrow just a bit and her smile slips slightly. Before he can think about the meanings for too long, she turns back to Slughorn, who is watching with an indulgent expression.

"Professor Slughorn, what is your experience towards those in different houses?"

For several minutes Draco attempts to chime in with his own thoughts and control the discussion, and Essa always offers him a few statements or opinions. However, she always returns to Slughorn, asking more questions, ignorant of the fact that he is an actual student and can answer with far more credibility.

Disgruntled, he leaves as soon as Mother touches his elbow instead of politely excusing himself. The second his feet land in the Malfoy's fireplace, his parents have their attention on him.

"What do you think of the Sterling girl?" Father asks. "Margaret offered her hand in marriage after the banquet, but I wasn't sure of her blood status nor her behavior. The Sterlings are a powerful family and a union would be beneficial; I, however, do not wish to risk our standings."

Draco thinks. His heir will certainly be fine on the physical aspect, with both his face and Essa's, and Essa is obviously an upgrade from Pansy, his current assumed betrothed. Pansy's eyes and mouth are passable, but her hair and nose are more than a bit undesirable.

"Her conversation is a bit dull," he remarks, "all she wished to do was talk about was Potions with Professor Slughorn, even after I openly expressed my disinterest."

Mother sniffs. "Her blood is clean enough. I heard that her father was from a famous American family, although it's curious she takes her mother's surname. We'll have to make sure she's not a bastard."

"I'll talk to her when our families convene." Draco hesitates before continuing. "She seems too nice to be a Pureblood." It would truly be a shame if her blood was anything but pure - a waste of both her physical beauty and surname.

Father sneers. "It would be in your favor to discipline her, else she might end up as a Hufflepuff."

What a truly abhorrent thought.

"She will learn, Lucius," Mother says, touching his arm in an effort to console him. "She didn't grow up in the healthiest of households, I remind you." Her tongue clucks in pity. "To be raised away from other Purebloods and neglected of her own culture… it's a miracle she even managed to survive at the banquet."

"The other girls will take her under their wings," Draco says, pushing away the thought of Essa swathed in yellow and black. "I'll make sure of it."

"Perhaps a bit of Slytherin influence over the summer is all she needs to be sorted into our house. Malfoys do not marry Hufflepuffs. Look at me, son." Father says, gripping his son's chin and lifting it so their eyes meet. Draco looks up into his father's face, so like his own, and struggles not to tear his gaze away. Lucius's voice lowers. "It does not matter how beautiful the girl is. If she is sorted into Hufflepuff, she will never be your wife."

"She won't be. Essa is very cunning," Draco lies smoothly.

She always returns to Slughorn, asking more questions, ignorant of the fact that he is an actual student and can answer with far more credibility.

She will never make it in Slytherin at this rate. She will be crushed underneath her obliviousness towards society's mannerisms. Without the guidance of his Pureblooded circle, she will crash and burn. If they get started soon, she has a better chance at survival. 

Perhaps Father ignores the coolness in his expression, for his fingers release their bruising grip and return to his staff. "Very well, son. Do not forget that the Malfoy legacy rests on your shoulders. You are excused." 

Draco bids his parents good evening with a bow, eager to abandon the conversation..


	2. Chapter 2

The Sterling Manor is quite large, though not as large as the Malfoy Manor. This is the first thing Draco thinks as Elizabeth Sterling opens the door. Vanessa's grandmother is dressed elegantly, a long feather extending jauntily from her hat. The Sterling women all wear hats to hide the unflattering shade of yellow they have as hair, except, of course, for Vanessa. Draco wonders if she even realizes her good fortune as Elizabeth kisses Mother on both cheeks, the two of them exclaiming at the other with fake smiles.

Father watches with thinly veiled amusement, and Elizabeth leads them through several large rooms into the kitchen. Portraits of mustard-haired ancestors with muddy brown eyes watch them, whispering furiously underneath their breaths.

"The Malfoy boy," Draco hears one of them exclaim in awe, and he cannot help his proud smirk. "He's so tall and _handsome_. Has he finally come for Gretchen's hand?"

Gretchen Sterling is a Third Year in his house. She bears an uncanny resemblance to her brother Garrick. Draco had sworn to himself, long ago when her parents had offered her hand to Mother, that he'd rather the Malfoy heir not exist at all than have to live with the nightmare of conceiving a child with Gretchen.

"No, no," another portrait exclaims. "Are you mad? He's come for Margaret's daughter, that American beauty."

"How can he be so sure of her lineage?"

The ancestors murmur amongst themselves, and, with dread, Draco can see Father's jaw tighten.

When they reach the kitchen, Draco is slightly startled to see all the adults clustered around the large table. Elizabeth sits on the left to her husband, Roman Sterling, who is positioned at the head of the table; on one side are Garrick and Gretchen's parents, and the other, alone besides Elizabeth, is Margaret. again he is struck by how unalike Essa is to the rest of her mother's side; all three women at the table wear hats and have sharp, strict features. Father sits down, leaving an empty chair between him and Margaret Sterling, and Mother fills it. Margaret stands up promptly, causing the feather on her own hat to bob.

"I will lead you to Vanessa's room," she tells him, her voice low and scratchy in a way that is quite unattractive, especially for a woman.

He follows her as she walks up the stairs. On the third floor, he expects to stop, as he glimpses Garrick's door slightly adjacent. He is hunched over a thick textbook, no doubt studying for a class, but Margaret puts her foot on another flight of stairs.

"I apologize for the inconvenience," Margaret drawls. "Vanessa insists on an unoccupied floor."

"It's no problem at all," Draco says politely, unable to accept that there is a good chance this woman will become his mother-in-law. He hopes his heir will not inherit her voice.

It is clear that the fourth floor has only been recently lived in; the walls are blank, and as they walk past several rooms, he notices that almost all of them are empty. His curiosity climbs when Margaret leads him into several halls, and she finally comes to a halt once they have reached the end of the corridor farthest from the stairs.

"She doesn't care much for her cousins, but she's very friendly. I have no doubt you will find her good company," Margaret tells him, only slightly desperate - a union would not only bring more merriment upon her house than on his, but to have her daughter be the one that joins the Malfoy family is as good as redemption in the eyes of the social court. Draco nods as she knocks on the door. "Vanessa, you have a visitor." She turns her head back to him, and has to tilt her head back so far that he expects the feather to fall to the ground. Height, he supposes, is yet another thing her mother has not given her. "Go on."

He reaches out and turns the knob as Margaret walks away.

His eyes flicker around the room as he steps in. It's not as large as his, of course, and not as elegant. The walls are white and bare. There is a bed, but it's smaller than what he expects even a Weasley bed to be, and pushed almost into the wardrobe. A suitcase lays at the foot of the bed. It is half open and filled with clothes. She's not in the room.

Preparing to make the treacherous climb back down all four flights of stairs, he turns on his heel and nearly jumps out of his skin in shock. Strung up near the ceiling right above the door is a hammock, and Vanessa watches him, one eyebrow raised.

"Good morning," she says, and swings her legs over the side of the hammock in an effortless, practiced motion. He manages to repeat the phrase after her, and blinks as she jumps down and lands without hitting the ground hard. She has on long, loose fitting gray pants and a jacket of the same color that comes down nearly to her knees. "Drake, right?"

He can not even bring himself to irritation, for he is so intrigued by her. There are so many things he wants to ask her, but it would not be polite. _Why do you have a hammock when there is a bed? How did you get up there at all? Why do you call yourself Essa when Vanessa is yours for the taking? What is the reason behind your odd nightclothes? Are you a Pureblood? Who is your father? Is he really deceased, and if so, what happened to him? Why do you smile so much?_ "Malfoy. Draco Malfoy."

Essa gives him a smile so sweet he has to steady himself in his shoes. Her eyes, he notices dimly, are brown, but not the Sterling shade. Hers are a bit lighter, with flecks of blue in them that undoubtedly come from her mysterious father. She adopts a horrific British accent that makes him internally cringe. "Bond. James Bond." At his blank expression, her eyebrows draw together. "You haven't seen it? Well, I don't suppose you would have." Her accent, fortunately, is once again American.

"Who is James Bond?"

"I guess you just have to wait and find out," she winks, looking so attractive that his body physically can not believe she exists. "Now, what brings you here to my humble abode, Draco?"

He collects himself. "I'm here to introduce you to people you will find are _beneficial_ to your behavior and status."

"In other words, you want me to meet your friends. Oh, my," she says, fanning herself as if the room is warm. "Aren't you the charmer. We haven't even reached first base yet!"

He has never been so confused in his life. Having a conversation with her, he imagines, is more difficult than playing Quidditch without the help of brooms. "Excuse me?"

"It's a joke. I'm joking," she says. "When are we leaving?"

"Now," he says, replaying the last few seconds in his head and trying to catch any jokes he'd missed. He finds none. "We're going to Diagon Alley."

"Here, can you hold this for a second? Thanks, don't turn around."

She doesn't wait for a response and thrusts the book she had been reading into his hands. Draco turns around halfway, but her fingers are at the edge of her shirt and her feet are carrying her to the suitcase. Although tempted to watch, she will be furious if she catches him, and there is no telling what this girl, unpredictable as she is, will do. With a sigh, he faces the wall and looks down.

He takes note of the book's title and how worn the edges are. He flips to a random page, and his eyebrows twitch. Several words are surrounded by blocks of different colors, and there are notes in the margins. Her handwriting is not cursive, but print, and very… _spiky_.

"Where are we going?" Essa asks him, her voice slightly muffled.

"The Three Broomsticks."

"Who are we meeting?"

"Theodore Nott and Daphne Greengrass. They both were at the banquet, but I don't suppose you conversed with them."

At this, she makes a sound that is accompanied by the rustling of cloth, and their conversation is over. He busies himself with trying to find out what her book is about, and reads half of a truly puzzling line on the page. _Afterwards Squealer was sent round the farm to_ -

He promptly shuts the book, a crease forming in between his eyebrows. There are Americans named Squealer? _How quaint_ , as Mother would sniff.

"Alright, I'm done," she says, and he turns around, a question on the tip of his tongue. He has allowed himself one question and one question only - after all, when faced with an enigma, there is always a thirst to solve it. He swallows the question in shock. Standing in front of him is Vanessa, still undeniably attractive (much to his chagrin), but in a short, ripped pants and a sleeveless pink shirt.

"No."

"No?" She cocks her head to one side, allowing a curl to bounce into her eyes, and the effect is so distracting his impatience ceases a bit. He must give her some room to adapt; she has the potential to be greatly respected within his (and, hopefully, her) house.

"Absolutely not."

"It's just a tank top. Why?" She turns slightly, and he almost chokes on his tongue. He can see her _bra_ in the side of that piece of cloth she calls a shirt. She disregards his status as not only a Malfoy but also a Pureblood, and refuses to obey him even when he clearly has the authority - she should be infuriating to him, but he's flustered and unsteady against her.

"You're a… you're a lady," _as much as the term has been relaxed to fit you_ , "and ladies do not wear these things. Besides, your pants… they're broken." He begins to gesture at her legs, but one glance down and he thinks better of it, forcing his focus back onto her face (which, to tell the truth, is not any less distracting.

Her eyes roll as if he is the one wearing cloth that looks as if it could fall apart on her body if the wind blows, leaving her in nothing but undergarments. "Ripped jeans _come_ like this-"

"There are rules here that prevent you from running around like a _heathen_." He stresses the last word, but to no effect; her eyes remain just as cheerful as ever. They really are the color of hazelnuts, or when the sun shines through dark glass… he shakes himself. "You must wear a skirt, in the very least, or a cloak. Get rid of that…"

"Tank top," she supplies.

"You can't go out like this. Purebloods have to be more _formal_." Her lips turn downwards at the corners in a truly distressing manner for the first time he's known her; he blinks in surprise and tries to make his voice softer. "Why don't you wear a skirt?"

"You'd swallow your tongue if I wore my short one, and it's too hot out for pantyhose."

He breathes in and out through his nose, feeling as if he is reasoning with a large child. "You have to."

"It's so hot," she says, eyebrows coming together in a way that a lesser man might describe as adorable. Draco, much to his severe displeasure, is a lesser man.

"Do you have pants that are any longer?" He finally consents.

She looks at him for a moment, and turns back to her suitcase, frown gone and replaced by an angelic expression. He disregards the way it makes him more aware of his own heartbeat; after all, seeing a truly attractive person for the first time in one's life registers its mark. And if the truly attractive person becomes his wife, well! - that would be tremendous.

He goes to stare at the wall for another moment as she ruffles through her suitcase. "Draco," she calls after a moment.

He likes the way his name sounds in her accent. When he turns, his eyebrows raise. "What does your shirt mean?"

She's still wearing jeans that look like they have been through several duels, ripped at the knees and thighs. They are a light blue that he's never seen on clothing, and so tight he feels as if he's violating her if he keeps looking. Essa glances down at her shirt. It's dark gray, with a large white W firmly centered. "It's my house shirt," she explains, and frowns for a second. "Well, it _was_ , I guess."

For a moment he stands perfectly still, debating with himself whether an attempt to change her out of those disrespectful pants (or rather, lack thereof) will yield results. Most likely, they will be later than they already are, and she will resort to wearing no pants at all. He supposes he could allow her to wear those things once; after all, The Three Broomsticks is notoriously casual, and Daphne doesn't judge; he suspects Nott will love them.

"Come," Draco tells her, not willing to wait another moment. He'd owled Theodore and Daphne earlier to meet at their usual spot in The Three Broomsticks, and Malfoys are never late.

" _Accio_ wand."

Another question for another day, Draco thinks absentmindedly as a white-colored wand flies out of her suitcase and into her waiting fingers. To his amusement, she pulls out the neckline of her shirt and drops the wand through. Somehow it neither shows through the shirt nor falls onto the ground.

"What did you do?" He asks, fingers tightening on her book.

She shrugs. "You wouldn't imagine a magic shirt to not be magic," she says breezily.

 _Oh, to bloody hell with etiquette_ , he thinks, and allows himself to ask the question that had been on his mind the second he'd read the cover of her book. "Why do you read of agriculture?"

"I don't," she says, puzzled, and then her eyes fall onto the book in his hands. A laugh bursts out of her. "I can't believe you're hiding a sense of humor underneath that stuffy exterior," she exclaims, taking the book and tossing it onto the carpet.

He decides not to address the latter part of her sentence in an act of mercy. "I see nothing humorous about my statement." _Like Quidditch without a broom_.

She shakes her head, still laughing, and passes him the bowl of floo powder. "I'll make a man out of you yet," she says, tossing her hair behind her shoulder.

He closes his eyes, holding back his cutting remarks and trying to push down his growing disbelief. And to think that before this conversation, he had thought her dull. "You're reading a book by the name of _Animal Farm_ simply for entertainment."

Although he had not asked a question, she answers. "Yes," she says, "I am."

Draco climbs into her fireplace, unsure whether to laugh or cry at the minuscule chance of this girl being a Slytherin, and the nagging insistence in his body that enjoys her company despite of it. He takes a handful of powder. "The Three Broomsticks," he states clearly, and drops the powder into the flames.


End file.
